


Spoke The Darkness

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Ethanessa, F/M, Ficlets, Love, Lust, Multi, Victorian Times, malnessa, older man younger woman, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: A collection of my short Penny Dreadful drabbles, ficlets, and one shots, just put in one place, pinned like butterflies so we can stop and stare. . .  some new, some old, not in any particular order. . .





	1. Once We We Were Young

Once we were young. Once we felt laughter bubble in our throats and thought all manner of thing would be well. Once we dreamed we could evade darkness. 

How silly we were. 

To think in shadows we could hide from shadows. It doesn’t work that way. 

As though when you are afraid, as a child, in the night, if you cover your head and stay completely still, the demon in the dark will think you are already deceased and will not bother with you, will not seek your soul, will not cause you unending pain and torment simply because you are already asleep. 

We know it now. We know it and we call it despair. We know it and we call it disaster and our throats close, not with laughter, but with sobs. 

Can you imagine your father cries in my arms? Can you believe it, dearest? A man who’s muscles rippled in ecstasy to cause others fear. A man who thrilled to hear the lash as it was used against the disobedient. A man who loved to create rules so he could punish others for breaking them while he himself broke them with impunity? 

Yes. That man.

He cries.

He weeps.

His body shakes with grief and I hold him. Sometimes I cry as well. Sometimes I cry for myself, and sometimes I cry simply because his mourning has dug a grave so deep, we both lie in darkness and cannot see anything else. 

In his sleep, I kiss his eyelids. Is there any flesh so delicate as the lids of a man’s eyes? And yet, this thin layer of skin shields the orbs that view all manner of thing- violence and depravity. I’m no fool. I know what he has done. I know how he has violated girls of other lands so that they were no longer fit for marriage and thus shunned from their tribes, cast out to starve or be killed by other savages- human or beast. I know he has thrust not only his manhood, but also knives and bullets deep into the flesh of other humans. I know he has done terrible things. He is a beast. He is like me. In this we are a perfect couple. 

You misunderstand if you think I take anything away from your dear mother by saying that we are a perfect couple. 

It is a vulgarity of which she shares no part, and thank whatever god for small mercies. 

Speaking of mercy. He has none for me. 

Mina, he hates me. 

Despises me. Abhors me to the marrow of my bones, I believe. 

Yes, he fucks me. He sheaths himself in me as though he is stabbing me with a weapon, his weapon of flesh. Yes. He fucks me. There are times I bleed and cry after because in his pain, he causes me pain as well. It is no less than I deserve, and in my tears I find connection to you and he is able to sleep. It is then I touch his face with fingertips light as spring sunshine, and I kiss his eyelids, and I worship every flicker that passes over his skin. He thinks his heart is so much more complex than mine because he is a man. A man with a man’s heart. Oh, might we have laughed about such a thing once upon a time? Might we have laughed until our ribs ached to think that a man could think his heart was so much more intricate than these things that beat within our breasts and drag us towards the deep and dark? But now, his face in repose is almost repulsive in its tenderness and I could pledge anything to him to lend even a shawl of security to shield him from whatever terrors await him in either dream or waking. 

Mina, I love him. 

I have always loved him, and even now I love him more because he is the last vestige of my life with you, and you were my oceanic madness- my fantasy of escape and hope of something happy someday. 

You will hate me too, I fear, and yet, there is nothing I can do. Even as I lie in bed with my head and body completely obscured by blankets, the demon approaches. Once we were so very young and we believed we had control over destiny. Now, I know quite clearly the devil will peel back the covers and will rake his claws over my skin whether I care or not. 

Your father and I cry and it is only a matter of time.


	2. We Walk Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Needs must. A fix to the end of season two. . . because it just couldn't end that way. . .

In silence, they sit. They are side by side on the couch, close enough so their thighs and arms touch one another. She does not trust her voice. She barely trusts her body, but she touches him anyway. She threads her hand through the eye of his elbow, and laces herself to him. When he does not pull away, she lowers her head to his shoulder.

“I suppose I should say I am sorry,” he begins.

“Please don’t,” she says.

“Vanessa, I wasn’t myself. She had enchanted me.” He touches her hand. “I wish I could take it back. I abhor what I did, what contributions my part played in this horror. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Then don’t say anything else. I beg you. I don’t want to hear another word on it.” She sniffles. She wants to be angry. She is not angry. She is shivering with grief and exhaustion, utterly bereft of anger. “Now is not the time.” She squeezes her arm around his. She clings to him, really.

“Very well,” he murmurs. He sighs heavily and kisses the top of her head. His lips rest there for a moment and she wants the world to stop so she won’t have to hear what comes next. “I will return our Sembene to Africa, from whence I never should have stolen him in the first place. His bones should find their rest in his native soil.”

She bites her lips to stifle the sob that rises up in her chest like a winged beast.

She remembers all the times he has told her in the past _he must go, he must go, he will go, he is going_. And then he is gone.

She hears the voice inside of her that cries out and pleads for him to stay. It is a voice over which she has clasped hand and cloth to prevent it from ever being heard, lest it ever prevent him from feeling his freedom, lest it ever prevent him from seeing her as he has needed.

“Will you be alright?” He asks. Inwardly, she yelps as delicate bits of her are plucked at in excruciating ways.

 _No!_ She wants to cry. _No, no! I will perish without you. I will be terribly alone and I need you to breathe and to see the world as anything other than oppressive and dangerous._

“Of Course,” she says. Agony burns as she swallows it back down into her chest.

“Mr. Chandler will be here. I’ve asked him to stay, to look out for you,” Sir Malcolm offers. In his voice there is a thread of something delicate and breakable.

“You won’t need to worry for me.” The winged creature beats within her breast, claws at her. She plans her route from the room so she can release the tears properly and in private.

“Sembene took impeccable care of us,” he sighs. “He deserved better.” The piteous sound of his voice will destroy her. She must take her leave. She raises her head and kisses his cheek. As she unravels her arm from his, he catches her hand in his. “Vanessa?”

“Yes,” she rasps, but will not look at him. She finds she cannot.

“Look at me, my dear,” he says softly. She does not obey. She continues to stare at the portrait on the wall, the ships either pulling in or pulling out of a harbor by the light of a full moon. She glowers at it until it could burst into flame. She’s never liked that portrait, now less so than ever. Sir Malcolm brings her back from the moonlit harbor with a hand on her back. “Please,” he says simply and she turns her face to find his eyes are green as the sea on a foggy morning. He reaches for her chin and touches her lips with his thumb. “I just wanted to see your face before I go.”

She shudders. “Don’t leave me.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave me. I can’t bear it. I can not be here and be without you again. You’d promised we would walk together and then you walked away from me. I do not think, that is, I can not. . . I can not. . . I can not. . .” Her words dissolve to gibberish and then to tears. He pulls her to him and holds her tight, stroking her hair off of her face. He crushes her against him so she cannot move.

“I’m sorry, Vanessa. I must bring him back. You know this.” He holds her face in his hands. “I must go,” he says in a voice hushed as the sea as it embraces a sandy cove.

“Yes, of course,” she clears her throat and attempts to collect herself. “Forgive me for making a fuss. I’m overtired.”

“No. You are correct. I betrayed my promise to you, to walk by your side. It is I who need to ask forgiveness, and I will do it every day for eternity if needs must.”

“You are already forgiven,” she says and attempts a smile.

“Do not smile for me when your heart is broken,” he grumbles. “Of all the things I do not deserve, your companionship perhaps tops the list.”

“Then I will wish you safe travels, my dear Sir Malcolm.”

“And I will wish you the same, as I insist you come with me.”

“What? To Africa?”

“Yes.” He clasps her hands in his. “You will come?”

“Yes.” She says without a moment of hesitation.

They turn from the portrait and walk from the room, together.


	3. Wicked Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of Sir Malcolm closing the gates has haunted her dreams, created space for demons to visit, so she simply stays awake. . . and she writes to Mina of her loneliness.

For many years, the sound of your father closing the gate between our homes filled my dreams. It haunted me. I developed an aversion to sleep because of it. 

Some of the doctors thought my refusal to sleep had potentially exacerbated or even caused my madness, but I knew better. I knew if I kept my eyes open, I would spare myself hearing the noise of iron clanking against iron in my sleep. That sound created the empty space in which I sat, so utterly alone and defenseless, where the demon found me and attempted to fill me. I wanted it and I did not, for I knew it was so wrong. And then I was too weak and sick to be able to decide either way. Maintaining a wakeful state was my only defense. 

I imagine the gate must still be shut tight, chained even, all these years later, but he has opened another door to me and I’ve passed through it. Being on the same side of this door as him has done little to persuade me to rest. 

His hair has greyed since I’ve returned to him, since I've claimed my place at his side. Could it be I reclaimed this position, shoulder to shoulder with him as we walk in the night? Certainly he does not see it that way. No. 

Grief has aged him. There are two silver streaks on either side of his beard. He reminds me of a fox I’d stuffed in your solarium so long ago. Do you remember? Do you remember how I could not tuck the sharp teeth back into its mouth, and so he looked particularly fierce with his fangs exposed in a snarl? This is your father. He is feral in his sorrow, as am I. 

In our wildness, even as we walk, side by side through darkness, there is no comfort of warmth. It is winter. We are bundled in woolen coats and velvet collars as we traipse through snow, searching for you. I watch as he tackles beasts, as he slits throats, as he stabs chests of the half dead. He wants so badly to find you. We return home with empty arms and there is blood spattered on his chin and forehead. He collapses by the fire and I dampen a cloth to wipe it away. My touch makes him shiver. I wipe the crimson from his beard until it is sparkling as snow again. I pour him drink upon drink, but it does little to warm him. There is no warmth between us. It is winter in our hearts. 

I’ve slept little these past weeks. 

In the beginning, I’d prepare for bed only to be woken by him or his servant to go out into the night on our variety of fools’ errands. In the beginning it was to go out and about to look here or there. But then, more often, I’d be called to his rooms to collaborate on other matters. I think most of these ploys were nothing more than tests of my mettle, to see if I’d be ready and willing to get up and go at his beck and call. I always was, but I dare not say this pleased him. I’ve made my peace with his displeasure. Even when he is in my mouth, filling my throat with great, hot clots of himself he has no satisfaction with my personage. I make myself as pliable as possible. I leave my hair down so he can twist his fingers in it and pull my head back to take him deeper. I consent and submit and then he pushes me from him. How tenderly I would hold him. How sweetly I would kiss and caress every bit of him, soothe his demons away and give him every ounce of pleasure I possibly could, as willingly as I possibly could. 

You see, he thinks he is doing something depraved and awful to me. He thinks he is punishing me for hurting his heart. But he is not. 

I am secretly loving him, trying to mend in furtive moments so we can begin again. Or even so he could know a moment’s peace. To see his stony face at ease would allow me rest. It is terrible, his pain, how even in his sleep after he falls from me, he is gripped by it. 

It strikes me, if he would allow me to love him, perhaps I would not be so lonely, even if he never loves me in return. It is a strange contradiction, of this I am aware. How I wish you were here to talk about it with me, for I believe only you would understand this singular desire. Or perhaps you would find me foul and displeasing and would abandon my heart as well. 

As it is, I know little rest. I rarely even lie in my own bed, lest I begin to fall asleep into wicked dreams, only to be woken by knocks on my door. 

I sit up and smoke and write at my desk.

More than anything, I fear finding you.

I fear what we will find, yes. I fear what we will have to do, yes. I fear that I alone will possess the strength that your father will not, and this will create a permanent freezing of the landscape between all of us, evermore. Oh, dearest, there is so much terror in my heart. Were not hearts create to love? How could one heart be filled with so much more fright than love? 

Most of all, I fear something so completely terrible and wrong, I almost hesitate to confess it, even to you. But we have always been closer than sisters, have we not? So, I feel I must tell you all. 

In finding you, I will need to fulfill the part of my promise in which I walk away forever from him. 

I suppose I will go home and sit on my side of the gate. I will sit until the snow falls and sparkles silver and it will make me think of him. I imagine sitting very still, and for so long, vines grow up around me and weave me into the pattern of the wrought metal until I become a part of the very thing that has served to sever me from my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments are so appreciated and touch my heart infinitely. xoxo.


	4. Brutalized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A previously published post, with minor edits and additions to the text. . .

_We here have been brutalized with loss._

_It has made us brutal in return._

She’d said these words to Mr. Chandler and suggested with utmost confidence that if he could not tolerate what he’d seen he could leave their house.

 _Sir Malcolm’s house._ Grandage Place was not hers at all, was it? She did not share this home with its owner, not in the slightest, did she? No.

She should have said Sir Malcolm’s house. _Damn!_ Her brain buzzed like a bee at her feeble error. Her voice had not quavered, nor had her posture crumbled for an instant. But as soon as Ethan’s eyes had broken from hers, in an emotion she could not name, Vanessa’s gaze fluttered anxiously toward Sir Malcolm. He stared at a fixed point on the carpet, perhaps at bird or flower or spiral design, his face stony as ever, his brows knitted thickly together.

Such a well-composed man. Such nobility and poise. Vanessa tried to breathe so no one could see how deeply her chest rose and fell. It was impossible for anyone else to know the fury that simmered under the layers of wool and velvet that clothed the bearded man before them. And no one knew how Sir Malcolm would come to relieve this frustration, no one but Vanessa.

They could not know, that when he spoke of fealty, there was another faithful obligation Vanessa had undertaken, that she’d sworn herself to him in ways dark and twisted in her desperate attempt at atonement.

She knew his temper would be voracious on that night of their compact.

 _I’m with you,_ Ethan had pledged. Vanessa had replied, _And I’m with you._ She'd said it authentically. At least she told herself she did. Certainly she'd never say such things to taunt her benefactor? Certainly not. 

Regardless of her authenticity, she could practically hear Sir Malcolm’s growl from across the room. She stabbed her palm with her fingernails to keep her own composure, to keep herself from glancing over at him. Then, as though to drive the point home how insignificant and unloved she was, he gave her the truth, that she’d been bait that night at the zoo, and nothing more. He’d known Mina would not be there. The creature sought Vanessa instead.

And he’d used her. Again.

Had not her veins already been bloodless and her heart completely frozen over the distance of their journey of agony, she would have felt pain of this betrayal. As it was, she merely inhaled and exhaled deeply, no longer caring who saw.

He would care for them both. He would at least feel something.

Later, after both Victor and Ethan left, and Sembene had turned down all of the lights, Vanessa rose from her seat by the fire. She looked at Sir Malcolm and he nodded. It was the code. She knew to prepare herself. She went to her room and stripped out of her black, lace gown until she stood completely nude in the spare light of a single candle and the small fire she’d laid in her hearth. She began to roll a cigarette for herself, but she heard his steps on the stair and immediately set down her tobacco and papers.

She went to her bed, pulled down the covers and laid on her stomach. She laid her face on her pillow so she faced away from the door.

Before long she heard her door open.

She did not move.

How many nights had she listened to the turn of the knob and the click as it shut again? How many nights had she listened to the rustle as he removed his coat, unbuttoned his vest, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves? She had memorized this beginning part as though it were a symphony. But what came next was always a surprise, and sometimes a shock.

She never knew whether to expect burning drips of hot wax, or searing flash of a switch on her backside. He could be quite inventive, or he could find a method that seemed to please him and use it for nights on end. He'd been particularly fond of removing his own tie and binding her with it, whether around her wrists or as a blindfold so she hovered in utter darkness as he took what he needed from her. She took slow, even breaths as she awaited his decision. It seemed though she waited for quite some time, and when she could bear it no more, she looked up and found him standing next to her bed, scowling down at her.

“Whatever will I do with you?” He asked and she knew better than to answer. “You cruel, little girl who ruined my life and now has the gall to flirt with men in my own home. What can I do to teach you your place, to make you learn?” He pumped his fists and worked his jaw. 

At the sound of his voice, she rolled over and sat up. When she comprehended his articulation, she hit her mattress with both her hands. “Do you think I haven’t learned? Do you think you are teaching me a lesson by beating and burning me in these midnight sessions of ours? No. I know it is only by brutalizing me by night that you can bear to stand upright by day, so I submit myself to your hand, but do not for one moment think I need you to teach me, or that you play no less wicked a part than I in this savage drama we call our life.” She spat her words at him with a ferocity he’d not seen from her in a long time. He lunged at her with an odd mix of rage and desire in his eyes as he wrapped a hand around her throat.

 _Ah_ , she thought. _So this is to be my torture tonight. He will deprive me of air, perhaps until I lose consciousness, or until I perish, even. Either way, it matters little._

“Do you want him?” Sir Malcolm hissed. He did not squeeze Vanessa’s neck, rather caressed it in a manner equally as terrifying.

“And what if I do?”

“Then at least I know you still feel something,” he said. “Why, oh, why can I not make you feel something, Vanessa Ives?”

“One must have a heart in order to generate emotion, and that is something you plucked clean away from me long ago.” Her eyes challenged his and she awaited the increase of pressure on her neck, but it did not come.

She shivered, suddenly cold from being exposed. He dropped his hand from her neck and sat down on the edge of her bed, put his face in his hands and sighed. For some reason, Vanessa suddenly imagined Ethan Chandler’s sad, brown eyes watching them, observing the scene of twisted depravity they created with only the effort it took to breathe in the same proximity of one another. She saw Ethan exhale heavily and shake his head, quietly bewildered by the bond of pain Sir Malcolm and Vanessa had forged and would not forsake.

In what might have been the most bizarre and deviant moment they would ever share, Vanessa crept silent as a jungle creature behind Sir Malcolm. She spread her legs and wrapped them around his back, then knotted her ankles together at his navel. He sat up a bit straighter and she felt the hitch of surprise in his breath. “Shhh,” she admonished.

She wove her arms beneath his, and embraced him, pressing her naked breasts against his shirt-covered back. She held him tightly like this, mashing her cheek against him until her face was sore. She crushed herself into him and constricted until he returned the pressure by caressing her arms and stroking her calves. With her ear against him, she could hear not only his heart thump, but the moans of want and need he uttered as he touched her flesh.

He shuffled and shifted slightly, moving her legs aside, so he could unbutton his trousers, and then he took her hand and slid it in so she could take hold of his shaft which ached and dripped for her. She rubbed her thumb over the sticky moisture at the tip, bringing it down so her fist could slide over him in silky waves. When he threw his head back in a lusty groan, she was able to catch his earlobe between her teeth and bite and suck until he cried out and she felt him release a hot ribbon of his wet seed on her wrist.

They stayed entwined as they were for quite some time, quiet, as his breath stilled. Finally, Sir Malcolm spoke, but now his voice was calm, almost tender as he said, “Whatever will I do with you?”

Vanessa replied, “Please do not try to make me feel. You are the one who feels for both of us now.” She nuzzled the side of his neck with her lips.

“Will you leave me for him?”

“I believe you know I cannot,” she said. “Even if I wanted to.”

The truth of their current reality was almost as brutalizing as the loss they had already endured.


	5. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously posted as a one shot. . . Vanessa wakes and goes to Sir Malcolm's study after a bad dream. Set during Vanessa's teenage years.

He is not a man who believes in the frivolities of ghost stories or fairy tales. 

Indeed, he is not even a particularly god fearing man. 

He is a man of flesh. A man of earthly desires scented heavily as soil after hard rain. A man who’s skin thrills to raw elements and acknowledges little regard for the spiritual realm. 

So, when he sees her at first, and thinks he sees a ghost, he is not only shocked, but humbled. 

She has appeared so silent and slender in his doorway, an apparition. 

“Well, what’s wrong?” He asks. She stands there in her nightdress, raven hair frames her face, which is white as the fabric that barely covers her body. He starts to stand from his desk where he is burning the midnight oil, as one does when they are preparing for a two year voyage into terra incognito. 

“I’ve had a bad dream,” she whimpers. Her fingers are pale and thin as the candlesticks they put on their tree at Christmas, and she seems to be clawing at the doorjamb as she bites her lip and quivers. He glances at the clock. Not even a single servant will be up at this time. He creeps from behind his desk, approaches her. 

“You look cold, little love,” he says. He tries to make his voice sound nice. He tries to make his voice sound soft, what one might call yielding, or kind. These are not instinctual sounds, typically, for Sir Malcolm, but when he sees tears clinging to her lashes, he finds it takes little actual effort on his part. Precious little effort. “Come,” he bids. She seems reluctant to let go of the wooden frame, so he steps forward to collect her, leads her by the hand to the sofa near his desk and the warmth of the fire. Her hand is, in fact, chilled. With a small grunt, he nods at the settee and goes into his adjoining room. He grabs a fur lined robe and ferries it back to her. “You’ll catch your death of cold and damp. What were you thinking coming out of your room without your robe?” His words do little (precious little) to scold as he wraps his cloak around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “May I sit with you for a while?”

“Of course,” he says. A part of him feels like he should remember to be annoyed that he isn’t working as he should be, but another part of him is pleased to place his body onto the couch next to her. “Did you wake Mina?”

“No. Your daughter sleeps like the dead,” Vanessa says and tries to smile, but she sniffles back the tears that have fallen. He pats his chest to find a handkerchief, and realizes he’s not wearing his jacket. He’s suddenly self conscious, wondering if she’s looking at his shoulders, or if she can smell the manly scent of him that is not hidden under layers of tweedy wool. As he is concerning himself with this moment of undue awareness, she surprises him by tucking her feet up under her and curling her body close to his, much like a household pet might. 

The Murrays do not keep pets. Not living ones anyway. They have a solarium full of taxidermies- creatures that have long since breathed and beat their last and had been stuffed full of sawdust by the children. It’s such an odd thing that Mrs. Murray had been forever squeamish about having cats or dogs about the house, but allowed the children to play in a room full of death. The fascination of his young with their gallery of wild splendor had long been a source of pride for Sir Malcolm. And it pleases him as well how their best friend finds especial pleasure with the most virile and vicious of specimen. Hawks and other creatures of prey. Certainly not docile animals that would curl their bodies next to his on a sofa. 

“Are you warm enough?” He asks.

“Yes,” she responds, and nuzzles her head against his arm. “Your fire is lovely.” She fits herself so snugly next to him, he has little choice but to extend his arm around her. She sighs deeply. “It seemed so real. I was so frightened.”

“Hmmh? Oh, your dream? It must have been terrible for you to be scared. I’ve not known you to be frightened of man or beast, Vanessa.”

“This thing, in my dream, it was neither man nor beast. It was a creature of shadows, perhaps a demon, and it came to me for reasons unholy. Utterly unholy.”

“There, there,” he says and his words sound hollow because he has such little (precious little) and poor experience in lending comfort. “It was just a dream.” He presses kisses down on the top of her head and smells the feral mix of things in her hair- the feathers of her pillow, flowers, the oil of her scalp. It is a strange, primal fragrance and his arm increases its tension around her. Even as she shivers, she is warm against his side. 

She tips her face up to look at him. Some color has returned to her cheeks. “What were you working on in here in the middle of the night?”

“Preparations for my trip.”

“So you are truly going then?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you wouldn’t though.” 

He touches her chin and allows his eyes to drift down to the translucent skin over her chest. “You’re not allowed to say that. You’re never allowed to say that to an explorer, Vanessa,” he says somberly. 

“Would I be in your rooms in the middle of the night if I cared so very much for what was ‘allowed,’ Malcolm?” For the first time, in this private realm, she dares address him so informally. Her eyebrow tilts up, waiting to see what effect this has on him, but even as she waits, she puts her hand over his and strokes his big, thick fingers. 

“Those eyes, so blue and rare, like sea holly in a wild garden,” he murmurs as he grabs her hand in his fist and holds it tighter than she would have expected. He lowers his lips to cover hers and she turns to throw a leg over his lap so they can embrace more closely. He clutches at her waist and feels the smallness of her, the fragility of her form without the hindrance of proper dresses and corsetry. The little moans she utters into his mouth are a sort of benediction and he knows he has done little (oh so precious little) to deserve such grace. He pushes her away. “Why are you here?” His tone is bitter. 

She strokes his face. “I had a bad dream,” she whispers. “And you always manage to make me feel safe.”

“You should not feel safe with me, little love. You should not.” He clutches her shoulders with the great paws of his hands, and wants to shake her. It strikes him that there are tears returning to her eyes, but she does not look afraid at all. 

“And yet I know of no other way to feel in your presence.” She wriggles closer to him so she is practically in his lap. God help him. “Will you take me to your bed,” she whispers. 

“No,” he sighs. He beats frustration back into the shadows with a silver edged cane of will. He wants this fragile, savage creature with every fiber of his wretched being, but it is so awfully wrong. He almost hates her then, could almost snap her neck for making him feel so terribly desolate in his evil desires. “No, you are not for me.” Instead of murdering her for infecting him with this treacherous need, he kisses her forehead. He pushes her away and stands to pour himself a drink. He drinks it quickly and rubs his hand over his face. Then he drinks another. He pours more into the tumbler and brings it to Vanessa who sits still, and watches him curiously. She takes the glass and sips. “Do you know of Calypso?”

“The goddess? In Homer?” 

“Yes. The one. She saved Odysseus from the sea, brought him to her gorgeous, garden of an island and tricked him into living there for years. She bedded him and provided him with any sort of delight he could have desired. She even offered him immortality. She tried to enchant him with her song and dance, and with her golden arts of weaving. Seven years, the myth says, she kept him with her. But he longed to return to his home, to his wife, Penelope. So his patron Goddess ordered Zeus to force Calypso to allow Odysseus to be free so he could return.”

“And you tell me this story why?” Vanessa sips her drink. “Do you liken me to a manipulative Calypso?” 

“No, my dear.” He says. 

“Then why?”

“You are all,” he shakes his head and resumes his seat by her side. “You are the goddess and the patron and the home. You are the dream of immortality. You are the golden lust and infidelity. You are the sea and the shipwreck, the voyage and the triumphant return. But I am no hero. Traveller though I may be, I am no Odysseus, and I have done precious little to deserve the likes of you in my bed.” 

She finishes the drink and winces at the sting in her throat. “And what of me? What of what I want or deserve?” 

“For tonight could we simply agree you deserve sweeter dreams?” His voice is neither gruff nor gentle, in fact, Vanessa has a difficult time naming it at all, and eventually decides he sounds very sad and weary to his soul, as though he is a sailor who has long struggled with the sea and is now about to allow the waves to engulf his head. 

“Perhaps,” she says. “But I do not want to return to bed with Mina.” She climbs then, completely uninvited, into his lap and cuddles herself against his chest. She tucks her head under his chin and presses her ear to the hollow at the base of his throat where she can hear the flood of breath and pulse as it races in him. 

He strokes her back, up and down, over the delicate bumps of her spine. He memorizes each hill and valley, selfishly names each for himself. He takes these little landmarks because they are all he can take, but he takes them greedily all the same. What would she be like, he wonders? A lusty man, he’s always been able to look at a particular woman and tell what she would feel like, smell like, sound like under him. He could simply know at a glance which position would create the best fit and feel, and fulfill these fantasies either in thought or deed. 

But not with her. 

Even as he holds her body, even as he sweeps the hair off her neck to caress and then kiss the downy secret of her nape, he has not a clue what it would be like to surrender to the fleshy cave of this incomprehensible creature. He imagines only it might be a mystery from which he might never return. A dark deed. Utterly unholy and yet magnificent. 

She grows heavy in his arms and her breath slows. He lays her on the sofa and arranges his cloak on top of her so she is covered and warm. In repose, she again resembles something ethereal and pale. He feels he could stare until dawn at the estuaries of blue that flicker against her wrists. But there is work to be done, and he is not a man given to whimsy. 

He resumes his post to finish a letter. 

“Malcolm?” Her voice is slow and sleepy and soft. 

“Yes?”

“We will return, won’t we? That is the dream I should like.” 

“Then you shall have it,” he says from behind the oaken vessel of his desk.


	6. Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before Vanessa goes to Ballentree Moor to learn about the darkness inside of her, she goes there because she needs the services of the Cut Wife, Joan Clayton. . . previously posted as a one shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for pregnancy loss and abortion.

Some days the spirit that follows Vanessa is like a cat. It slinks languidly around her ankles and purrs and seems to want either to comfort of be comforted. If she could, she’d pick it up and hold it to her heart, pet its fur with long, slow strokes. 

Other days it is like a butterfly that flits about her head in the sunlight and does not stay still for more than a moment, no matter how much Vanessa wants it to stop and stay still so she can see and admire it. 

That’s the way with spirits. They don’t stay still. You can’t see them for long. The moment you sense their flicker, they are elsewhere. 

It pains her. 

To know a thing, and yet to not know a thing at all is a sort of torture. 

Still other days, the spirit is like an angry hornet. It buzzes accusingly around her and stings her relentlessly. Vanessa scratches at the welts that rise up on her arms and legs and shoulders and even on her belly. Especially on her belly. They itch and burn and can not be soothed with cool water, or aloe, or anything. 

The Cutwife said it would be so. 

“This is no babe,” she’d said, her fingers wiggling against Vanessa’s uterus and making her ovaries ache. “I can take it out, but you’ll never be free of it.”

“Do it then,” Vanessa had hissed.

“Very well. Pull up your skirts and lay down on the tarpaulin,” the Cutwife sighed. Vanessa did as she was told and the Cutwife unfolded her leather bound parcel of tools. “It’ll hurt. You can scream. Most of them do. Or bite on this and imagine it’s his cock,” she said handing her a rag she’d soaked in whiskey. Vanessa pushed her hand away. “No?” The Cutwife shrugged and shoved Vanessa’s knees apart. “Open up your legs then, girl. I know you’re no stranger to it.”

“Please don’t be cruel to me,” Vanessa whispered as the tears started to flow. “I’ve cruelty enough to walk with me until the end of my days.” 

The Cutwife had regarded her, her two-toned eyes gleaming in the light. “Are you certain you wish for this course? Babe or not, this thing was created out of something akin to love.”

“I am certain,” Vanessa said. She had lay there and thought a little of her family, of the shame it would bring them. But mostly she had thought of Mina and had thought of what Mina would have said if she had known, if Mina had seen her skirts hitched up in the darkness in the maze, if Mina had heard how loudly she’d cried out as she climaxed in his arms, wave upon wave of pleasure wracking her body until she could barely stand. “Do it.” She saw the hesitation in the gray eye and the willingness in the orange eye. “Do it! I won’t be sorry after, I swear it. Just be done with it.” She turned her head to the side so as not to look in her eyes, not in either one, again. 

Vanessa heard the clink of metal and felt a cold protrusion between her thighs. The Cutwife poked around to open her lips and find passage inside. Vanessa felt a metallic chill, then the stubborn resistance of pain before the hook pierced through her membrane and tugged at whatever it could. She did not scream. 

She brought her hands to her head and pulled at her hair. It was growing out. It was almost to her shoulders now. She tugged on it and bit her lips and tasted the salt of blood and tears. 

“If you need to lose consciousness, don’t fight it. I’ll wake you later,” the Cutwife said and this time her voice was not unkind. Vanessa felt her scrape at her insides as though she were going at a bowl for last bits of left over jam and cream. Vanessa whimpered slightly but she did not scream. Nor did she lose consciousness. 

Vanessa twirled her hair in her fingers and licked her lips. She sniffed back great gobs of snot and she shuddered. “Stay still, girl. Stay still.” The Cutwife murmured and put a hand on Vanessa’s knee as she worked, and this time her touch was infused with kindness. “What did he do to you, girl? What on earth did he do?” 

Vanessa wept, and almost laughed, as she considered the bitter irony. For all of the things they had cut from her at the Banning Clinic- her hair, bits of her skull and brain, her dignity- they had not thought to take her womb. So when he came to her, she was not only intact, but fecund as a pomegranate. Her old friend. A demon dressed in a suit once so well worn with love. Oh she’d loved him until the fibers of him were near to bare. Was that why she followed him? Was that why she allowed him to lift her skirts and twist her legs around his thick, familiar waist? Time after time she’d followed him into the maze, like a deviant returning to view their handiwork at the scene of a crime. She sought him out and fucked him as hard and deep as she possibly could, not even thinking of the consequences, but just of her feral desire, that maybe it could bring her somehow back to something. Another time? Another place? Who knew. She’d been sick and weak. 

Even now, as she endured this feminine massacre, her eyes rolled back in her head and she felt her heart race, wanting him. Even. Now. When she closed her eyes she saw his face, but not the luminous, black eyes and languid voice. No. She saw the gray-green of the sea. Even. Now. He would forever be her own pulse. 

As the Cutwife did her work, Vanessa tried to pray, but she found her lips too weak to make the words, even in whispers. She felt a gush between her legs and heard the ocean in her head and suddenly she was there, walking on the sand, chasing after him. As she always would. 

“You can wake up now, girl.” 

Vanessa opened her eyes. A fire was lit. She was still on the floor, but there was a small cushion under her head and she was covered with a quilt. There was another, larger cushion under her knees and feet. “Where? Where is it?” 

“I’ve done away with it. It nearly killed you. Are you going to tell me what that was?”

“No. I don’t know.” Vanessa raised her head slightly and the Cutwife gave her some water. “Have I slept long?” 

“Three days.”

“I’ll pay you extra for your dutiful service.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. When the time is right, you will be back.” The Cutwife lit a pipe and puffed at it. The smoke filled the cottage with an herbal incense that was pleasant and comforting to Vanessa, as though she’d known it before. Vanessa tried to sit, but the Cutwife pushed her back. “You’ve had a steady flow of blood which I’ve finally managed to stop, but you’ll need to stay still. Are you in pain?” 

Vanessa looked up at her and the tears streamed from her eyes relentlessly. “Yes,” she whispered, wanting for all her heart to hold his hand and nothing more. The Cutwife frowned at her, then hobbled around the cottage and mixed something into a mug which she brought back to Vanessa. She commanded her to drink it, and Vanessa obeyed. 

“You’ll sleep again now.” 

As she drifted off, Vanessa thought she felt her forehead being stroked with an uncommon tenderness. 

When she was prepared to leave, the Cutwife told her something. “The thing I took from your belly was cursed. It did not want to leave you, nor did it want to release its hold on your spirit. I performed some charms on it to vanquish its darkness, and I cast it into the fire. But it is as I told you on the first day you were here; you will never be free of it entirely. You’ll know it in different ways, but it will be with you. Tame it, girl, and it will mostly be tame, you understand?” 

Vanessa nodded. She took both of the Cutwife’s hands in her own. “Thank you,” she said. 

“You’ll be back.”

“Yes.” 

Now, she sits at her desk at Grandage Place. She writes to Mina. Even in her letters she can not tell of this. She knows they are likely letters that will never be read, that will likely wind up in the fire as well, but she still can not put in ink on paper what transpired. 

She can not speak of it Sir Malcolm. 

It is a pact she keeps with darkness. 

She likes her little spirit best when it is like a bird, when it chatters and flutters by her and she can almost hear it fluff its feathers. She imagines its plumage is bright yellow, the color of buttercups in the sun on a glorious summer day. She imagines it soaring free and then looping back to return to her in a happy arc. Always it returns to her, and she can almost make out its song.


	7. End of Story. . . or, Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously posted as a one shot.

The pastry had a delicacy to it that seemed firmly out of its element at Grandage Place. Ethan watched as the slave trader sliced into it with fingers so deft and gentle they might have been able to capture and caress a hummingbird without harming a single gilded feather. 

“I knew you could handle yourself in the kitchen, but I never took you for such a master baker,” Ethan said under his breath, lest he disturb the artist at his craft. 

“Miss Ives enjoys her treats,” Sembene replied in his typical flat tone and cadence. 

“So what have you got there?” Ethan asked. Sembene regarded him with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

“This is a six layer torte with lavender cream and vanilla from Madagascar. From a distance it just looks white, but if you inspect closely, you can see the delicate purple color and the dark flecks of the vanilla.” Sembene extracted a piece of the cake and plated it. Ethan chuckled and swore he caught a note of pride in the servant’s description, subtle as the lavender undertones in his dessert. 

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” Ethan remarked, remembering how the same hands currently holding porcelain plate and cake knife had handled the curved blades that sank deep into flesh of the undead. He watched as Sembene plated two more pieces of cake and placed the generous portions on a tray. Then he covered the rest of the tall treat with a glass dome. “Hey there, I think you miscounted. You’ll need another piece. There’s me and Victor, Malcolm, and Vanessa. You’ve only got three pieces there.” 

Sembene considered Ethan with a look that was at once confident as it was bored. And it was at that moment, Vanessa came into the kitchen. “Good night, gentlemen,” she said. She cupped Ethan’s shoulder with her hand in a gentle caress and then kissed Sembene’s scarred cheek. “I’m off to bed.”

“You’re going to miss out on dessert,” Ethan said.

“Save some for me for breakfast,” she said to Sembene with a little smile. 

After she’d cleared the kitchen, Ethan asked, “Does she always eat dessert for breakfast?”

“Always,” Sembene said with a rare grin. “Sir Malcolm brings it to her each morning.” 

“The two of them,” Ethan began, shaking his head. “They’re a rare sort of thing, aren’t they?” 

“The two of them are rare. End of story.” Sembene returned. “You’ll carry the coffee.” Ethan picked up the silver coffee urn and followed Sembene’s crimson coated back into the parlor.


	8. A Man's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I put the photograph of Peter and Mina away because it broke my heart; not a girl's heart, Vanessa, but a man's heart." 
> 
> Vanessa tends to a drunk and despairing Sir Malcolm.

Drunk and drowned in despair, he’d fallen asleep in his study again. 

Vanessa discovered him thus. 

On this particular night, she found him slumped over his desk, his fist smashed square center in the broken glass of the framed photograph of Mina and Peter. Blood pooled into the cracks and spread out like crimson ink against the image below. “Oh, Malcolm,” she breathed and quickly found a handkerchief in her pocket. She lifted his hand off the picture and examined it. She would need to flush out the wound to make sure it did not contain any shards of glass, but she wanted to get him to his bed first. 

Sembene was no longer here to help her. 

She sighed heavily at the task before her. Gently, she nudged his shoulder. He snorted and stirred, then looked up at her with red ringed eyes. “Hello, Vanessa,” he offered, dazed and disoriented. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” she said. She slipped her shoulder under his arm and helped to steady him as he rose. He did not fight her. He never did. Those days were long past. But he was still proud. This she knew. And she knew, drunk as he was, he would not allow her to help her with a chamberpot. “Would you like to use the commode before you retire?” She asked, trying to be as discreet as possible. 

“Please,” he agreed. She helped him to the toilet and steadied him so he could relieve himself into it. He did not seem to notice her presence as he emptied his bladder of its brandy filled contents in a steady and surprisingly exact stream. He slumped against her again when he was finished, having forgotten to button himself back up. No matter, she would undress him for bed anyway; the buttons of his trousers would merely be one less step for her. 

They wove their way into his bedroom. “Sit on the edge,” she ordered and he plopped heavily down. Silently, she began the work of removing his shoes and clothes. When she came to his neck to untie his cravat and unbutton his shirt, he caught her hands in his. He looked up at her with his eyes that were unfocused and wet with tears. “My love, I hate to see you torture yourself like this,” Vanessa whispered. He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them as he began to sob. She clutched his head to her chest and held him close. She stroked his hair and face. He’d not shaved and his beard was starting to grow back. The coarse stubble pleased her. He sniffled against her breast like a child. She reached to grab a handkerchief to wipe his nose, and remembered it was already tied around his hand. “Lie back. I need to look at your hand.” She gently pushed him back onto his pillows after extricating him from his shirt. 

Vanessa obtained a jug of water and a basin. She held his hand over the edge of the bed and ran the water over his hand to clean it. He winced as she wiped at the gash in his flesh, but he allowed her to examine and clean the wound. She found a fresh cloth and wrapped it around his fist. His head rolled against the pillow and his eyes managed to focus on her. “We are here, are we not?”

“Yes,” she said. Her lips twitched in a sad smile. “We are here.” She bent and brushed a kiss onto his temple. He surprised her by wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. Her cheek landed on the bare skin of his chest. He stroked her back and neck and his fingers fumbled into her hair. She’d learned, during the past weeks, when he was intoxicated and inconsolable, it comforted him to play with her hair. Resting her hand flat against his breast, next to her cheek, she allowed his caresses. Truthfully, the sensation rather lulled her as well. She almost could have fallen asleep with him, but she was concerned he would be cold if she did not stoke the fire and find him a nightshirt. She waited for his fingers to still and then stood. 

Into the fire, she tossed a couple large logs and she stirred the coals underneath. As she stared at the flames, she heard him speak. “I believe now that your heart is like mine, Vanessa. I am sorry I ever believed otherwise.” She turned to find him sitting up in his bed. She grabbed a nightshirt and returned to him. 

“Hush now,” she whispered as she pulled the shirt down over his head. He stuck his arms through the sleeves and again used them to embrace her. 

“Forgive me?” He begged.

“Yes, I forgive you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he sighed and fell back against the pillows. 

For a time, Vanessa sat by his side and watched his chest rise and fall as he slept. His mouth was partly open and he snored lightly. Vanessa pulled the covers up around him and checked to make certain he was not bleeding through the bandage she’d wrapped around his hand. When she was assured he was as comfortable as could be, she bent and lightly kissed his lips, lingering for a moment to breathe his breath. Then she rose and went back to his study to peel the photograph out of its broken shell, to try to salvage whatever she could of its stained remains.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated and motivating and I also love ideas for prompts. I try to respond to everyone. You have my eternal gratitude for reading. Xoxo.


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